


In Nomine Patri

by acetamide



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-25
Updated: 2011-05-25
Packaged: 2017-10-19 18:45:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acetamide/pseuds/acetamide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the fathers that Merlin has known, he has yet to decide which is the one that he will remember the longest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Nomine Patri

**Author's Note:**

> AU from the point where Balinor is stabbed in 2x13. An awful lot of liberties taken with the mythology here, so bear with me. And if some of the ideas and descriptions seem oddly familiar… well, it’s probably because they are.

Merlin finds out as they step through the gates of Camelot, Balinor’s arms slung over their shoulders, his head ducked low and his hands tensed on their shoulders. These are the walls that shut him out and these are the men that hunted him down, and Merlin can’t blame his reluctance to return when he’s terrified of the same fate for himself. His father’s breath is weak in his ear but Arthur’s arm is strong against his where they’re braced against Balinor’s back, and Merlin knows that there would be a faint trail of blood on the path behind them had the rain not washed it away as soon as it had fallen.

The first person that he recognises as they approach the castle is Gwen, standing just inside the first gate and looking out towards them. And at first he thinks that she’s come to welcome Arthur home, perhaps embrace him and tell him that she missed him, and he smiles because their excursion might only have been six days long but he’s still always glad to be home. But then they get closer, and he can see that her face is tight and pained as she walks towards them. Her hands are clutching at the seams of her dress as though she’s not sure what else to do with them, and the line of her shoulders is tense and harsh as the rain pounds down around them.

She watches them as they come through the gate, guards rushing to help with Balinor, to take him from them and away to be treated. He wants to call out to them, to bring his father back, but he can’t, so he looks to Gwen instead where she stands as still as he’s ever seen her just a few feet away.

“Merlin, I’m sorry,” she says, her voice strained and thin, and he has to take a step closer to hear her over the rain. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” he asks, bewildered, and he can see Arthur out of the corner of his eye – he looks torn between staying with them and going with Balinor, and is shifting from foot to foot. “Gwen, what happened?”

“It’s Gaius, he…” she pauses and takes a deep breath, wiping water from her eyes. “It was last night, he was carrying wounded across the courtyard when the Dragon attacked.”

“But he’s okay,” Merlin says, a horrible sinking feeling twisting into his gut as she stares at him helplessly. “He’ll be okay.”

“He’s dead, Merlin,” she chokes, one hand coming to cover her mouth as though she can take back what she’s said.

“No,” he whispers, taking a few steps back and bumping into Arthur as he shakes his head slowly. “No, no he’s not. He can’t be.”

“Merlin, I’m _sorry_ …”

“Merlin, what –?”

“He’s _not_!” Merlin shouts and he turns on his heel and runs away from them both, his feet splashing mud and dirtied water up his legs as he flees through the town.

 

***

 

This is how Arthur finds him half an hour later:

He’s curled up in ball on his bed, his head pillowed on his arm and tears staining his shirt, staring ahead at the wall. He starts and sits up quite suddenly when he hears Arthur step through the door, sniffing and wiping at his damp eyes, trying to pull himself into some sort of order, but Arthur doesn’t insult him or rebuke him or mock him.

Instead, he just crosses the room to sit by his side. He doesn’t say anything, but he stays there until Merlin face is dry and the thunder outside has ceased, a solid strength that says _I’m here_.

 

***

 

By the time night falls Balinor is sufficiently healed that he can go out into the courtyard and call the Dragon to him – Merlin watches from Arthur’s side, close to the wall and away from the tips of Kilgharrah’s wings as he lands in the centre, his eyes glimmering gold in the light of the fires that he’s started already this night.

Merlin watches as his father faces off against the Great Dragon, one tiny man against a legendary beast, and wonders how he can possibly bend the creature to his will. But then Balinor starts to speak, his voice low and rumbling and so full of power that Merlin can feel it in his bones. He doesn’t understand the words, but he sees the moment when the Dragon quiets, settling himself before Balinor and folding his enormous wings against his back. Balinor says one more thing as he hefts a spear in his hand, and Kilgharrah stares at him with something that could be remorse, and speaks.

“You would kill me, Dragonlord?” he asks, and even in his subservient state he still sounds imperious. “You would kill me when I have aided your son in his trials ever since he stepped foot into the wall of this city?”

Balinor looks into his eyes, a half-smile twisting across his face, and replies in a whisper that carries through the still air.

“He has me now.”

And then the spear is aflame with bright blue light and soaring to pierce through the scaly chest, hitting true and deep.

There’s a moment silence before the Dragon roars, an ear-splitting noise that makes Arthur take an uncertain step backwards. But that’s all that the Dragon can manage – he teeters on his feet, wings twitching on his back, before toppling to the side with a resounding crash. His eyes flicker and die, and dark blood begins to spread across the ground.

Then there’s a rumble and a crackle and the world _shifts_ , the air around them bitter with the taste of blood, and something inside Merlin cries out at the death of his kin – the Old Religion, mourning the death of its last great creation.

A sudden ache strikes him throughout his whole body, and he is violently sick on the cold stone of the courtyard as the fires burn around him.

 

***

 

He wakes suddenly with a splitting headache and warm sheets under his cheek, and he has a moment of disorientation before he opens his eyes and looks around himself. He’s lying on Arthur’s bed, but he’s alone; the fire is crackling behind him and Merlin twists over to see Arthur sat in front of the flames, staring into it. The bend of his back is one that Merlin’s familiar with.

“What happened?” he asks, and his voice is rough around the edges as he speak. Arthur turns briefly to look at him, the fire casting shadows across his cheek, and sighs.

“You passed out in the middle of the courtyard,” he says, sounding tired. “I didn’t think you’d want to be alone in your chambers.”

“And Balinor?” he presses, catching himself before he can say _my father_ , and Arthur continues to stare into the fire.

“My father granted him clemency, but has forbidden him from entering the town – and if he is caught practising magic then he will be executed as per the laws of the kingdom.”

“So you’re telling me that this man who saved the city has been forbidden entrance into the same walls?” Merlin asks indignantly, propping himself up on his elbows. “Your father should be grateful that he came at all, considering what he put Balinor through! He should be given a full pardon for what he’s done.”

“It is neither mine nor your place to question the King’s judgement,” Arthur says, his tone hard, and he turns to Merlin with an indecipherable expression on his face. “And he is subject to the laws of this land like any other.”

“But he’s still here now, isn’t he? I mean, he’s still recovering.”

“He left the city as soon as the Dragon was confirmed dead. There are plenty of nearby villages where he can rest until it’s time for him to move on.”

Merlin swallows a few times, trying to think of something to say that won’t have Arthur questioning him but he can’t. And normally he would go to Gaius, see if he could suggest something but he _can’t_ , and his whole body still aches from hours before and he just wants to sleep.

So he rolls over and stares out of the window where the skies are still dark and the stars are twinkling, and in a castle full of people and with Arthur sat just a few feet away, Merlin feels suddenly, very terribly, quite alone.

 

***

 

He half-wakes as the morning light is drifting through to the bed, with his face pressed into a pillow that’s damp with tears and Arthur’s arms wrapped around him, holding him against his chest. He’s too asleep to be able to hear what Arthur’s saying but the tone is reassuring and warm and more of a low murmur than anything else, and Arthur’s fingers are rubbing small circles in the back of his neck, and it’s soothing enough to send him back to sleep.

It takes him a while to work out that the tears on the pillow are his own.

 

***

 

It takes him the whole of the next day to find his father – he takes his mare from the stables without warning Arthur where he’s going, and after asking around the townsfolk, heads northwest from the city. His journey takes him through the Darkling Woods and beyond the resting place of Morgana’s father, past four villages before he finally finds one where he can feel a deep thrum through his veins as he approaches.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me,” Balinor says as Merlin sits down beside the bed that he’s lying in, bandages wrapped around his bare chest. “I didn’t know if you’d come.”

Merlin starts to speak but changes his mind, looking away from Balinor.

“The new physician arrived today. I didn’t want to be in the castle,” he says, and takes a breath before continuing. “And I wanted to see how you were. Arthur said you left as soon as you’d killed the Dragon.”

“I didn’t have much choice,” Balinor explains. “Uther is not a man to admit that he’s made a mistake. I’m grateful that he’s granted me the clemency that he has.”

“But it’s not enough!” Merlin growls, shoving his hands under his thighs to keep them still. “You saved the city, he should be rewarding you! Not punishing you! All I did was save Arthur and I ended up getting a place in the royal house!”

“You saved the Prince?” Balinor says and Merlin looks up at him. There’s something in his eyes that could be pride but Merlin’s not sure. “Tell me about it.”

“I didn’t plan it,” he says without thinking, then frowns. “Well, I’m not saying it was a bad idea, but… there was a woman, a witch. She was posing as another woman that was meant to be singing, one that Uther knew, and when she started to sing at the banquet, everyone fell asleep. Everyone except me. And I stopped her, and everyone woke up, but then she threw a dagger at Arthur and I just acted instinctively. I don’t even know if I stopped time on that occasion, but I got him out of the way regardless.”

“On that occasion,” Balinor repeats, with a smile, and it’s one that Merlin can’t help but return despite the mood that he’s in.

“What?”

“You do realise that most sorcerers can’t stop time at all, don’t you? And the witch’s spell didn’t affect you? Just how powerful are you, son? _What_ are you?” he asks, shifting himself into a sitting position, and Merlin shrugs.

“My mother says that I’m special, and Gaius said that he’d never seen the likes of me before. Kilgharrah told me that I have a great destiny to help Arthur unite the lands under one crown. Nimueh called me a creature of the Old Religion, and The Druids call me Emrys. And I just found out that I’m the son of a Dragonlord. Even I don’t know who I really am right now,” he says tiredly, and Balinor is silent for a moment before speaking again.

“I remember Nimueh,” he says. “She and I were good friends before the Purge, before Uther drove her out of the kingdom. What became of her?”

“I killed her,” Merlin tells him, bluntly and unapologetically, looking down at the floor. “She threw the natural order out of balance when I tried to trade my life for Arthur’s. I didn’t have a choice.”

This time, Balinor doesn’t respond, so Merlin lets him stay in silence whilst it continues to rain outside the small hut.

 

***

 

Arthur is quiet when Merlin returns just before dinner, and doesn’t ask him where he’s been all day. The body of the Great Dragon is still lying in the courtyard – it’s possible that they aren’t sure how to move it, or perhaps are leaving it to remind the people of the dangers of magic. Which ever way, the sight makes Merlin feel ill every time he glances at the looming body.

Arthur doesn’t speak to him as he moves around and completes his chores, and Merlin’s not sure if he’s grateful or not.

 

***

 

The new physician is kind and competent, but she is not Gaius. Her name is Olwen and she comes from Caerleon, and the first thing that she did when she arrived was to ask Merlin if he wished to be her apprentice as she tied an apron around her waist and pulled her long hair into a braid. He said yes, and she immediately set him to work. He spends the whole day reorganising Gaius' chambers for her and purposefully not thinking about Gaius, or Balinor, or Uther, or even Arthur.

Whilst she is a replacement for Gaius the physician she has no illusions that she can ever be a replacement for Gaius the mentor, and she allows Merlin to take many of Gaius’ books into his chambers and does not seem to mind when he locks himself away for several hours at a time. He doesn’t know if she is a witch, or even if she would be sympathetic and ally with her were he to tell her, so he keeps it quiet.

It is ten days after the Kilgharrah’s death when Merlin pauses in his sweeping of the chambers as barking and howling begin to echo down the corridors, and a chill sets into the stone of the castle.

 

***

 

Udell and his men arrive at the castle two weeks after Kilgharrah’s death and four days after the sound of howling dogs first reaches Merlin’s ears.

In those four days, Merlin has been woken to the piercing sound of howls and hoofbeats, and four people have been found dead in their beds. They haven’t been hurt in any way. There’s no blood, no wounds, nothing out of the ordinary. They’re just four perfectly healthy people who went to sleep and never woke up.

The bodies come to Olwen’s chambers when the fourth one dies – one is commonplace. Two is a coincidence. Three is unfortunate. Four is suspicious. Olwen sets to quickly and efficiently, but as intelligent as she is, she has no answer. There is nothing wrong with the bodies.

When Merlin is jolted awake in the middle of the night with non-existent dogs barking in his ears, he knows that another body will be brought to Olwen’s table come dawn.

 

***

 

Balinor is healing well. His chest is free of bandages but the woman that he’s taken refuge with still won’t allow him to do any heavy labour. They eat lunch together, bread and cheese and fresh milk, and Merlin tells him about the events in the castle in the same way that he would normally tell Gaius.

“Cŵn Annwn,” Balinor says eventually after good consideration, as though it pains him to do so. “The Wild Hunt. Death is coming to Camelot.”

“Death is always coming to Camelot.”

“This is different, son,” Balinor stresses, suddenly reaching across the table to grip Merlin’s forearm tightly. “The Hunt is an omen. It means that not only is something terrible about to happen in Camelot, but it’s more than that – the Hunt rides alongside the war and anyone who hears the howls of the hounds will be taken in their sleep to join the cavalcade.”

“The war?”

“Usually a war. Maybe a plague, or blight, but the Hunt heralds a catastrophe. This is bad news.”

Merlin blinks and takes a breath, and then grins at his father.

“Okay, so I guess I’d better stop it then. I just need to know how.”

“You can’t _stop_ the Wild Hunt,” Balinor barks, finally releasing Merlin’s arm and leaning back on his stool. “The Hunt cannot be destroyed, and it has to have a leader. Whoever kills the leader has to take his place. The Hunt is an omen of disaster and disaster itself cannot be wiped out. No, the best thing that you can do is get out of the city and stay away until it’s safe to return.”

“Leave the city?” Merlin repeats, a little incredulously. “You have got to be joking. I won’t leave my friends to die if I can do something to prevent it!”

“You cannot help them, Merlin. To challenge the Leader of the Hunt would be to sacrifice yourself.”

“So then I’ll just have to tell them all to evacuate the castle or something.”

“That won’t work, and you know that it won’t.”

“Well I have to do _something_!” Merlin shouts furiously, leaning forward on the table. “I won’t leave Arthur helpless!”

There’s a pause and in the silence, Merlin can hear the chickens outside clucking in a rhythm with his violently beating heart. Balinor looks at him for a long time before sighing heavily, and shaking his head.

“It always comes down to Arthur, doesn’t it?” he asks, a little sadly, and Merlin can’t help the petulant tone to his voice.

“There is nothing more important than protecting Arthur. And that’s exactly what I plan to do and if I have to do it without your help, then so be it.”

“Son…”

“It’s fine, father. I’ll find out how to save Camelot by myself,” he says, as calmly and politely as he can, and excuses himself.

He feels viciously alone as he walks back to where his mare is tethered to the nearby fencepost, and the feeling doesn’t abate on his ride back to Camelot.

 

***

 

Arthur himself is quiet when Merlin attends to him that evening – but then he’s been sat on the council with his father and other nobles all day, and that tends to leave him pensive and introspective at the best of times. It’s something that Merlin is usually grateful for, gives him a break from the affectionate insults and constant annoyance, but for once he just wants Arthur to talk to him, like how they used to. They don’t, they haven’t since Kilgharrah died, and it makes Merlin’s chest ache.

“Arthur,” he says eventually after sweeping the hearth, but Arthur doesn’t seem to hear him. He’s too busy staring at his beef like it holds all the solutions to the world’s problems. Merlin doesn’t get a response until he pokes him on the shoulder and even then, Arthur gazes up at him with a blank expression on his face.

“What?”

“Something’s wrong, you’re tense,” Merlin presses, pouring him a goblet of wine. “What is it?”

“The peace talks,” Arthur says with a sigh, taking a large gulp. “With Udell. Father’s not making much progress and he fears that he won’t be able to sign the treaty. And if the talks fail, well…”

“Well what?” Merlin asks, a little sharply, and Arthur just shrugs. He looks as despondent as Merlin’s ever seen him.

“If I know Udell at all – and I’d like to think that I do – then all our knights will need to be assembled. He’ll declare war on us. He’ll attack Camelot before the fields are sown.”

Merlin’s stomach clenches at Arthur’s words and all he can hear is _usually a war_ rattling around inside his head.

 

***

 

Merlin goes out that evening, into the dark, and follows the cold wind and the howls and hoofbeats.

He knows that the other people in the city can’t hear them, or at least he’s quite sure – they don’t turn sharply, they don’t flinch when they feel horses huffing in their ears. They shiver when they step through cold spots but think nothing of it, think that it must be the last vestiges of spring still clinging in the air.

He follows them out of the castle and through the town, and then further to the south until they reach the edge of the forest surrounding the city. It’s there that the howling stops, and there that the Hunt appears.

They appear as an army, a massive horde of phantom riders on horseback that thunder across the land, the horses’ hooves leaving scorch marks on the ground and the hounds weaving between them as they approach.

They come to an abrupt halt before him, a host of ghostly knights on silver horses that stamp their feet and snort their rage. The tallest of them dismounts and steps forward, and Merlin takes a step back – his body is a crackling, flashing mixture of bone and blood and skin, and whilst the crown on his head and the robes around his form look real they’re not. Merlin knows that if he reached out his hand, it would go straight through him.

 _Emrys_ , it says, the word drawn out and stretched across the air in between them. Merlin takes a deep breath and nearly coughs at the rotten stench of dead flesh that fills his mouth and nose.

“I’ve come to ask that you leave this place,” he says, trying not to cough. There’s a whistling noise and the Hunt suddenly seems an awful lot closer to him.

 _You have no authority_ , the Leader says, its fingers drumming the hilt of its sword. _You cannot banish us_.

“I am the last creature of the Old Religion and I demand that you leave!” Merlin shouts, but he knows that it’s futile even as he speaks. These men do not care, and they laugh - the sound as harsh and grating as any he's ever heard before.

 _You are young, and you are weak_ , the Leader hisses. _Maybe in a hundred years, a thousand years, I will pause to consider your demands. But that time is not now. War is coming to your Kingdom, Emrys, and when it does I will lead my Hunt through your people and my host will grow and only when there is nothing left for me here will I leave_.

“I’ll kill you myself before I let you destroy this place,” Merlin snaps, and he’s ready to do it, he’s ready to kill the Leader no matter what that might mean for him. But the Leader doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest, and it leans closer to him.

 _I know the future, Emrys_ , it says, and its voice sounds like the sharpening of an axe blade. _I know everything that is to come and I have seen the ascension of the next Leader of the Hunt and I can tell you now – it is not you._

 

***

 

When he returns, he finds that Olwen has tidied his room. His sheets have been removed – no doubt sent off with a maid to be washed. His other pair of boots are neatly sat beside his chair, and his books have been picked up from the freshly-swept floor and placed in a few small stacks on the other side of his bed.

Except for one, that’s been put on the crate next to his bed. Its cover is red and worn and it has no title, but its pages are full of descriptions of omens, portents and presages. Near the end are a few pages on the Wild Hunt.

Merlin doesn’t say anything to Olwen as they eat supper but he offers her a smile, and she returns it.

 

***

 

He spends the night reading the book and gathering what he needs for the next day, and he only stops when his candle burns out and he is forced to sleep.

He doesn’t tell Arthur where he’s going, just that he’ll be gone for a few days and to his surprise, Arthur doesn’t try to question him. He just looks at Merlin like he’s waiting for him to explain, to tell him something. Like he’s disappointed.

It’s an expression that Merlin can’t bear to see, so he leaves, and tries not to feel as though there’s a million other ways that he could go about this.

 

***

 

It takes him two days to complete his small quest, and this part of it ends with his kneeling on the dry grass in the centre of a clearing in the exact centre of the Kingdom, just on the edge of the forest, between the city and the White Mountains. He’s pressing a large stone slab into the ground in front of him, tracing patterns on it with a flaming blue knife and watching as the lines are engraved onto the rock.

He’s tracing symbols of binding and protection, of blocking and holding, and whispering under his breath as he goes.

The stone grows warm beneath him, and he presses his palms to it. There’s just two more items that he needs.

 

***

 

The physician’s chambers are empty when he returns to the castle, tired and dirty and wet, but his own room is not.

Arthur is sat in the centre of his bed, his boots crusted with mud and his head bowed low. His fists are clenched together tightly and he looks up slowly as Merlin enters, and there’s something about his whole posture that screams out to Merlin.

“Arthur?”

“You’ve been gone for two days.”

“I did tell you that I was going…”

“But not _where_. I suppose you went to see your father.”

He unclenches his fists and held there, nestled in his palm, is the little wooden dragon that Balinor had carved for him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, calmly and quietly, and that’s worse than if he had shouted and riled against him. At least then Merlin would have been able to shout back, to justify himself and be righteous but with this… all he can do is work his mouth as words refuse to leave his lips. He clears his throat awkwardly. Arthur is still not looking at him.

“How did you… when did…?” he trails off helplessly, watching the wooden dragon flip over and over and over.

“I heard you. When he was stabbed. He thought he was going to die, didn’t he?”

“So would you if you’d just had a sword stuck in your chest.”

“You’re his son,” Arthur says flatly, his thumb rubbing over the dragon’s head. “You’re the son of a Dragonlord.”

“Arthur, I only found out the day we set off to find him…”

“But you didn’t _tell_ me,” Arthur barks, and his head snaps up to look straight at Merlin. And there’s the anger, simmering there in his eyes, the anger that Merlin had been expecting. It’s right there. “Which makes me wonder, what else have you not told me?”

“Arthur…”

“What else will I find out if I start looking, Merlin?” he asks, and despite the fury that Merlin knows is boiling deep in his belly he just sounds tired. Like he’s not sure if he can be bothered with this. He stands quite suddenly and holds the dragon out to Merlin. He takes it – the wood is warm in his hand.

“I don’t appreciate being lied to,” he says evenly, fixing Merlin with a hard stare. “I don’t like it when people keep secrets from me. I need a servant that I can trust.”

“You can trust me with your life!” Merlin protests, but Arthur doesn’t seem to hear him. He just walks past, his shoulder brushing Merlin’s and leaving a cold spot in its wake. He doesn’t even pause as he leaves, just calls back over his shoulder as he descended the steps.

“Don’t let it happen again.”

Merlin is left clutching the wooden dragon with his heart hammering in his chest and his mouth painfully dry, and feeling like there’s something missing.

 

***

 

He collects the second to last part of the spell in Arthur’s chambers that night, as he helps him prepare for bed. They don’t speak of Balinor – Merlin’s not sure yet if he wants to but Arthur hasn’t brought up the subject and he doesn’t want to start a fight. So they dance around each other like they have done for the past few weeks and even if there’s no heart in it, it’s comfortable enough for Merlin to feel less alone for once.

“The peace talks failed whilst you were away, you know,” Arthur says suddenly, slipping it into the conversation like it’s not important. “Just after you left. Udell has declared war on it. His army is on its way – they’ll be here by dawn. Preparations are being made. Olwen will be back in the morning, you and she need to be ready for casualties. Father is trying to negotiate with Udell but he’s not backing down. I don’t this will go well for us.”

Merlin can’t move. All he can do is stare at the razor that Arthur’s holding against his own throat.

 

***

 

He nearly manages to get to the edge of the forest before he’s caught. He’s getting better at sneaking around places in the dead of night.

“This is part of what I meant by not lying to me, you know,” Arthur says flatly, and his expression is unreadable in the light of the torch that he’s carrying. “This sneaking business.”

“Er, yeah, I was just… going to see my father,” Merlin says and even he knows that it’s a pathetic excuse. Arthur knows it too.

“In the middle of the night.”

“I wanted to get a head start. It’s a good day’s ride.”

“You don’t have a horse.”

“Which is why I have to leave now. Because I’m walking instead.”

“You’re a really bad liar, Merlin.”

“I don’t know, I’ve managed to keep a fair number of secrets from you.”

“Like what? The longest you’ve ever managed to keep a secret was to hide your magic from me and that only lasted about a year.”

Merlin opens his mouth and promptly shuts it again.

“Wait, hang on. You _know_?”

“Yes, I know,” Arthur says, his face twisting into a puzzled expression. “Merlin, I’ve known for ages.”

Merlin blinks.

“Yes. Yes, of course you have, how silly of me…”

“Have you had a blow to the head?” Arthur asks, taking a few steps closer, and Merlin jumps backwards.

“No, I’m fine, but Arthur there’s really somewhere that I need to be right now so if you could just let me go then I’d be really, really grateful. Please?” he adds, and Arthur continues to stare at him as though he’s deluded.

“You’re coming back up to the castle, Merlin,” he says with a sigh, reaching out to grab hold of his shoulder, but Merlin dodges again and glances at the woods. He’s running out of time. If Udell has declared war then it’ll only be a matter of time before the deaths start piling up.

“Look, I won’t be long, you can just wait here or something,” he tries, and Arthur’s face contorts further.

“I said, you’re coming back,” he repeats, and this time he manages to get a grip in Merlin’s shirt. He yanks, and Merlin resists, and they teeter for a moment before a small scuffle breaks out. And Merlin tries, he really does, but he’s never going to be a match for Arthur’s brute strength and he goes down hard, falling flat on his face.

He hears a crunching noise beneath his body and he scrambles upright in horror, grabbing the torch from Arthur, and groans. The light reflects off the thick red liquid that’s slowly sinking into the grass like it’s mocking him.

“Great,” he mutters, and scowls at Arthur as he clambers to his feet. “Now I’m going to have to take you with me, you great prat.”

 _Emrys_.

And just like that, the Hunt is there, standing in front of them and around them, hounds drooling on their feet and sword-points pricking against their skin. Merlin holds his breath, and then breathes again as Arthur curses beside him and grabs hold of his arm. Merlin glances at him, and Arthur is staring straight at the Leader.

“Wait, you can see them?” Merlin asks in surprise and Arthur nods, his gaze fixed on the Leader as through amazed, or terrified. Either could easily be the case. Then there’s a strange, sharp wheezing noise and Merlin panics for a moment, imagining that one of the hounds has approached them, but it’s not. He looks up, and the Leader is laughing, and he is looking directly at Arthur.

 _All men can see their futures, Emrys_ , the Leader says, and a cold wash of dread sweeps over Merlin at the implication, and the gasp that leaves him is a combination of horror and sharp pain from where Arthur is gripping his upper arm a little too tightly.

“You will not take him!”

You cannot change destiny, it says and something deep, and violent and ferocious uncoils in the deepest part of Merlin’s stomach. When he speaks, the voice that he hears doesn’t sound like his own.

“I will rid this Kingdom of you before you have the chance to even lay a finger on him,” he says, and it’s a promise that he’ll keep, and he feels Arthur shift closer to him even as the Leader shakes its head.

 _It is too late_ , the Leader says, and a chill sets through Merlin’s bones. _Udell’s men have crossed the border. The Hunt begins_.

Merlin hesitates, but only for a second – the air is suddenly alive with the Hunt as it sets off, the riders spurring their horses in different directions and the hounds ever-weaving between them, spreading out across the land whilst the people sleep. But he doesn’t pause to watch them.

He grabs Arthur’s wrist and yanks him around, crashing through the undergrowth and into the forest towards the exact centre of the Kingdom. Arthur follows and thankfully, doesn’t ask questions – it’s as though he’s still in shock from the sight of the Hunt, and maybe he understands what the Leader said about his future. Which couldn’t be true, it can’t be. It can’t.

“I need your blood!” Merlin shouts as they reach the clearing and burst through the trees, his voice nearly drowned out by the howls and shouts that are ringing through the air. He stumbles to the floor beside the carved stone, and it’s glowing in the moonlight.

“Merlin, what the hell are you –”

“I don’t have time to explain!” he snaps, pulling a dagger from his belt and cutting into his own hand as Arthur watches him in shock. “Just give me your hand or Camelot will fall!”

He must look crazed, Merlin thinks absently – he’s sat here, crouched on the floor in a darkened forest clearing, with blood dripping from one hand and a knife gripped in the other, shouting about spells at dead men and destinies. But Arthur’s not looking at him like he should be prescribed a strong tonic – he’s looking at him like he does, in fact, trust him.

There’s a pause in the howls, and a breeze rustles the leaves on the surrounding trees. Arthur holds out his hand.

Merlin grabs at it as the howls and hoofbeats start up again, louder and stronger and _closer_ than before, and he’s haphazard with the knife, slashing it across Arthur’s hand and the blood flows quickly, and with a whispered word, he slams both of their hands down on the stone.

The slab flashes with a blinding light and the ground rumbles beneath them, and at twenty more strategic spots along the borders of the Kingdom of Camelot, twenty similar stones burn with a fierce light – and between them, unseen by mortal eyes, strings of fire burn and rage and do not fade. They form a barrier, a magical fence around the Kingdom and they stand strong with blood twisting in the flames.

The air tastes of blood as the ground continued to rumble, and then is abruptly ripped from both Arthur and Merlin’s lungs as a vicious ripple bursts forth from the stone between them and hurtles across the ground until it hits the barrier and the land is clean again.

The forest is silent.

Merlin breathes.

 

***

 

“So. Explain.”

“It was a protection spell,” Merlin says tiredly as he binds Arthur’s hand. “A ward, constructed across the Kingdom, to prevent the Wild Hunt from travelling across these lands. I couldn’t destroy it, so it was the best I could do.”

“Right…” Arthur says slowly, and grunts slightly as Merlin ties off the temporary bandage. “And the blood? What was that all about?”

“Blood of the Old Religion, and blood of the King,” he says absently as he focuses on his own cut. “That’s what the protection spell called for.”

“I’m a _prince_ , Merlin, not a king.”

“No, you are,” Merlin says absently. “The Once and Future King, in all times and places. Um, it’s not too easy to explain but I’ve got it on pretty good authority. Had it. Well, that’s what Kilgharrah told me at least.”

“Kilgharrah?”

“The Dragon.”

“You talked to the Dragon? When?”

Merlin opens his mouth to respond, but then glances up at Arthur. There’s enough light coming from the stone so that he can see Arthur’s expression, and he looks as though he’s hearing it but not taking it all in. Merlin tilts his head to one side and pulls a face.

“Look, can we talk about this somewhere else?” he asks, and Arthur holds his gaze for a moment before nodding.

 

***

 

Uther and Udell sign the peace treaty as the dawn casts its light on the ground, and the corridors and streets are silent. Around the borders of Camelot, the fires burn.

 

***

 

“But won’t people notice these fires you keep talking about?”

“No, and that’s the beauty of it,” Merlin says with a grin, stacking up the plates. “They have no effect on mortals. Normal people, they won’t be able to see it, or feel it, or anything. They’ll just pass through the barrier like there’s nothing there and they won’t know any better. But malevolent spirits or monsters that wish harm until the Kingdom won’t be able to pass. It’s a powerful protection spell.”

“And this spell, it’ll hold?” Arthur asks, and Merlin nods, sitting down in the chair opposite him.

“Until our blood stops running, and then the fires will fade and go out.”

“So then someone will have to redo it, then, once we both die?” Arthur continues, and Merlin shrugs. “Some other sorcerer and some other king.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he says, but it’s only to appease Arthur. There’s a twisting, warming feeling in his gut tells him that somehow, this isn’t the case.

Their blood won’t run out.

 

***

 

“I am proud of you, you know,” Balinor says, and he squints against the sun as he sets the pitchfork against the fence. “I’ve never heard of a ward of that magnitude – I would have thought the power needed to cast it would be too much for just one person.”

“It was,” Merlin points out, flexing his fingers where they’re gripping the fence that he’s sat on. “It needed both of us.”

“Blood magic can be a dangerous thing, Merlin,” Balinor warns, his voice low. “You need to be careful with that sort of thing. It can corrupt.”

“I like to think that Merlin is pretty much incorruptible,” Arthur calls as he exits the house, dusting flour off his hands, and Merlin grins at him as he approaches. “If just because there’s not enough in his head to corrupt.”

Merlin swipes at him as he comes closer but Arthur ducks and nearly pushes him from his perch on the fence, leaving a large, floury handprint. Merlin can feel Balinor watching them as he gives Arthur a hand to pull himself up onto the fence but it’s a warm sort of watching. He glances back, and Balinor is smiling.

“Hunith says the food will be ready soon, and you’re both to take off your boots this time, or you’ll have to sweep the house yourself. Please tell me you’re not discussing the Hunt again.”

“Hey, that ward was my greatest achievement to date, _including_ the Nimueh incident and the rest of the times I’ve saved your royal arse. And we’re moving onto discussing it objectively.”

“You must have run out of ways to analyse it by now.”

“Nearly,” Merlin says, and turns back to his father. He pauses for a moment, before taking a breath. “The Leader. He told me that Arthur would take his place one day, take on the Hunt. He was sure of it.”

Balinor looks at him, and then at Arthur who doesn’t appear at all worried but Merlin can read it in his eyes, and then he smiles.

“But you won’t let him take him, will you, son?” he asks, and Merlin shakes his head.

“No. No, I won’t.”

“Well then. Everything will be okay, won’t it?”

Merlin lets out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding, and feels the hard, warm line of Arthur’s body pressed against his.

Maybe it will.


End file.
